


Dinner date

by ImogenGotDrunk



Series: Fuck pride timestamps [2]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: And a good boyfriend, Blowjobs, Bonding over guitars, Canon-typical language, Coming Out, Enemies to Friends, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gavin is still an asshole, Genderfluid!Connor, Hank & Gavin awkwardness, Hank is Hank, Humour, Insecure Gavin, M/M, POV Multiple, Post-Game, Post-Pacifist Ending, R.K is a good brother, Resolved Sexual Tension, Rimming, Sappy as hell, Smut, but he's gotten a lot better, gender fluidity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-28
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-07-03 17:19:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15823446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImogenGotDrunk/pseuds/ImogenGotDrunk
Summary: Connor suggests having RK900 and Gavin over for dinner, now that they’ve tackled the complications of becoming a couple.A hardboiled Lieutenant, a foulmouthed Detective, two androids and a Saint Bernard under one roof. What could possibly go wrong?





	1. Connor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I was quite drunk while writing this.
> 
> The first little section takes place during chapter 12 of [Fuck Pride](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15227520/chapters/35318340/), but the rest takes place after the whole story.

**“Would you be willing to lend your advice?”**

Connor blinks in the middle of doing the dishes, his LED flickering yellow as the message filters through his subliminal processor. Hank has fallen asleep on the couch, and there’s a rerun of a reality show flashing brightly on the television. Connor isn’t particularly interested, but the obnoxious voice of one of the female contestants nearly cuts over Nine’s question.

In the kitchen, Sumo nudges his thigh, no doubt wondering why Connor’s paused so suddenly.

 **“Of course.”** Connor finds himself concerned. Nine hasn’t messaged him from so far like this for several weeks. It must be important. **“Is everything all right?”**

He waits, half-clean plate still in his fingers and dripping soap suds into the sink. Until…

**“Yes.”**

Connor continues with the washing up, relieved. He’s silent as he allows Nine to muddle through whatever it is he wants to ask. Connor is intrigued, though. Nine rarely asks for advice unless it is important, and it is rarer still that he needs to anymore. He’s adapting to deviancy very well, in Connor’s opinion.

**“It’s a personal matter.”**

Ah.

Of course, when it comes to _personal matters_ , neither of them can deny that Connor has more knowledge. More experience in the field. **“A personal matter. I see,”** he answers. **“And how is Detective Reed this evening?”**

Connor enjoys teasing. He’s never quite been able to help himself, and the slight, embarrassed static over his and Nine’s shared wavelengths is worth his friend’s mild irritation. Flustering his successor is not an easy feat, so Connor savours it whenever he has the chance.

**“Detective Reed has asked me to join him at his apartment.”**

Connor tilts his head as he slots the plate into the draining board, moving to dry his hands. **“What are the conditions?”**

**“We are watching a movie.”**

That seems highly unlikely. Connor knows the Detective’s self-discipline will not endure for an entire movie. He is far too impatient.

 **“That sounds like bullshit.”** Connor’s getting better at cursing, too. Hank is very pleased with his progress. **“You can’t possibly believe that.”**

**“I don’t. That’s why I’m asking for your advice.”**

Connor doesn’t roll his eyes. That would be rude. But he does cast a withering look down at the Saint Bernard. “They’re still being difficult, Sumo,” he informs his friend gravely. “What do you think?”

“ _Grruff_.”

“I agree. I don’t think they would be rushing into anything, either. It’s been several months, after all.” Connor scratches Sumo’s ear to thank him for his input, and then leans back against the kitchen counter, resolved. **“I advise that you go.”**

**“You sound very sure of yourself.”**

**“I am.”**

**“ _You_ will not be the one to suffer the fallout, should this go wrong. You can be sure _because_ you’re not involved.”**

Connor doesn’t take it to heart. His friend is nervous, that much is obvious. Though he does feel satisfied when a strained admission of guilt fizzles through to his system.

 **“You’re not as involved as I,”** Nine amends. **“Forgive me. I didn’t mean to snap.”**

**“Have you accepted his invitation?”**

**“Not yet.”** Nine sounds a little despairing. **“I realise that it may be rash to do so. I feel… unprepared.”**

There’s another, long pause while Connor lets Nine’s unexpected confession sink in. He plays with one of Sumo’s ears while he drifts into thought, and he finds his gaze wandering to the living room; to Hank, snoring and sprawled out over the cushions. Connor tries to remember what it was like, when he was in Nine’s position all those months ago; tangled up in his new feelings, but afraid of taking any kind of risk, lest he lose the Lieutenant’s friendship altogether.

 **“And it is possible that I have… misread the evidence.”** Nine’s cautious voice returns, and Connor feels a deep pang of sympathy. He is more involved than his successor thinks. **“I might be wrong.”**

That same question had been a cruel, unfriendly constant; whirring through Connor’s processors each time he had let himself stop to doubt. Doubt was an unpleasant emotion, and one that Connor had still not quite gotten a handle of.

But it had been entirely redundant, in the end. Hank _had_ wanted him. And Detective Reed wants Nine. It can be broken down into something as simple as that.

**“You’re not wrong. As you have told me numerous times, you’ve been convinced that Detective Reed desires a romantic relationship with you for some time. And you well know that we were programmed to effectively analyse and adapt to all manner of situations.”**

And the RK900 series was programmed to rectify the mistakes of the RK800. Connor wishes he’d acted on his own feelings sooner. Been honest with Hank. Had spent as much time with the man he loves as humanly possible, from the very beginning. Nine wouldn’t make the same errors, not in _this_. Certainly not if Connor had anything to do with it.

**“Now stop fucking around, and _go_.”**

He doesn’t hear back from Nine that evening. But Connor assumes he’s taken his advice. The RK series always make the smart decisions in the end, Connor thinks to himself, as he curls against Hank on the couch and lets Sumo hop up too; squashing Connor’s feet under his weight.

“I’ll help with th’ washin’ up,” Hank mutters blearily, arms sliding around his waist to keep him from falling off. “Gimme a m’nute…”

“It’s okay,” Connor says, shuffling closer. “It’s all done.”

Hank grunts. Disapproving. Embarrassed. “S’rry.”

“Don’t be, Hank.” Connor feels Sumo slobbering on his legs, feels Hank nuzzle into his hair, and he smiles. “I don’t mind.”

He goes into stasis some hours later, right there on the couch with both Hank and Sumo’s snores to keep him company. He misses the message from Nine by a few minutes.

 **“Thanks.”**  


***  


On Monday morning, Detective Reed skulks into the precinct at around eight thirty. Nothing is physically different, of course. He’s scowling, has his custom brown jacket on his shoulders, and Nine is walking calmly at his side. All as per their usual morning routine.

But Connor is a good detective. He knows immediately.

**“I’m glad your weekend worked out as you’d hoped.”**

He sees Nine incline his head in acknowledgement when the message reaches him. **“I’m glad I took your advice,”** his friend replies. **“I apologise for my indecision on Friday evening. I see now that it was unwarranted.”**

Connor does not say _I told you so_ , no matter how much he might like to. Hank calls him big-headed often enough as it is.

“The hell are you smilin’ at?” And speaking of his partner.

Connor returns to handing Hank his coffee. “Nothing at all, Lieutenant.”

It doesn’t deflect him. Hank is a good detective, too, and he’s already followed Connor’s gaze. It takes him a moment; brows furrowed, eyes flitting between the suspects in question. And then he barks a laugh.

“Look at ‘em, trying to play it off,” he says, smirking towards Nine and Detective Reed, who are now sitting, quite innocently, at their desks. “Oh, yeah. They fucked all right.”

“I know.”

The Lieutenant’s head whips to him, and his smile is replaced by a familiar blend of scepticism and dismay. It’s the same expression Connor sees whenever he attempts to analyse blood samples in Hank’s presence. _“You know?_ Like hell you know, Connor, how could you _know_?”

“When we link, the cerebral bond between androids allows me access to an array of Nine’s activities,” Connor replies mildly.

Androids cannot actually link without some form of physical contact. But Hank most likely does not remember this titbit of information, and Connor does so enjoy the bafflement on his partner’s face. Perhaps too much, sometimes.

“This includes the activities he has partaken in with Detective Reed this weekend,” he adds. He returns to balancing the coin over his knuckles while Hank chokes on his own oxygen.

“Jesus, Connor, you fuckin’ pervert.” Hank sounds more embarrassed than angry. “Don’t tell me you actually… actually fuckin’ _saw_ anything.”

“I’m teasing, Hank,” Connor admits, shooting his partner a small smile. “Nine contacted me on Friday evening to ask my advice. I was simply aware that he spent the weekend with Detective Reed. There is no need to overreact.”

“Overreact about what?”

Connor glances towards the source of the cagy question, and sees Detective Reed scowling at them from across the room, craning his head to listen in.

“The fuck are you two talkin’ about?”

“Why don’t you mind your own fuckin’ business, Reed?” Hank snaps back. “How about that?”

“Fuck you, Anderson! If I think you and robo-twink are talkin’ shit about me, I’ve damn well got a right to ask about it–”

“You’re such a fuckin’ schmooze, we weren’t talkin’ about you! The whole fuckin’ world doesn’t revolve around Gavin Reed, believe it or not–”

“I’m not sayin’ it does, asshole. And I don’t goddamn believe you, what the fuck were you sayin’–”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Reed, chill the hell out–”

 **“Perhaps you’d like to accompany me to the break room.”** R.Ks calm voice cuts through the bickering, which is becoming increasingly louder as Detective Reed starts scooting his chair closer and closer to Hank’s desk. **“I have a feeling this will continue for some time.”**

Connor nods, and both androids make themselves scarce. Their absence apparently goes unnoticed by the pair of humans as they continue to argue across the bullpen.

“I must apologise on behalf of Detective Reed’s behaviour,” Nine says, routinely turning on the coffee machine and grabbing the nearest mug. “His apartment is unfortunately low on coffee, and a lack of caffeine seems to have a contingent effect on his mood.”

Connor hums, pleased. It can only be a good sign, surely, that Nine remained in the Detective’s apartment for the _entire_ weekend.

“What _were_ you and the Lieutenant discussing,” Nine continues, side-eyeing Connor, “if I may ask?”

“We were discussing Detective Reed.”

Nine chuckles. Though the way he leans beside the counter, fond gaze on the Detective as he snarls at Hank, does not go unnoticed by Connor. “It’s probably best _not_ to tell him that. For the Lieutenant’s own safety, if nothing else.”

“Agreed.” Connor’s leg bounces in impatience, as he lets enough time pass before asking his question. “So your relationship with the Detective has moved forward?”

“Yes.” Nine pauses. “However, I do not think he is… amenable to this being public knowledge quite yet. Not around the DPD. So if you and the Lieutenant wouldn’t mind–”

“Of course.”

Nine takes the Detective’s mug, now full and steaming, and inclines his head once more. “Thank you.”

Connor’s fingers are itching to take out his coin, to avoid asking another question that may be unwelcome, not to mention intrusive. Then he realises that his coin is on the desk beside Hank.

Well, shit. “But you and Detective Reed should have dinner with us next week.”

Nine’s elbow slips from the counter, and some of the coffee falls from the mug’s brim and splashes on his shoe. They both look at the spillage for a moment, before Nine meets his gaze. “Dinner? Eight,” and his tone is dry as he wipes the side of the cup with a paper towel, “you do not truly believe the Detective will agree to this.”

“He might,” Connor reasons, in the same tone he uses when negotiating in the field. And from Nine’s expression, he recognises it all too well. “If _you_ ask him.”

“Contrary to everyone’s belief here, I am not the sole exception to Detective Reed’s stubbornness.”

“Perhaps not. But you have had sexual intercourse.”

Chris Miller unfortunately walks past in that moment, and he freezes by the door; glances between the two androids. He shakes his head, “Don’t wanna know,” and hastily retreats to the safety of his desk, far across the bullpen.

Connor continues. “I have learned that sexual intercourse can make humans very susceptible to agreeing to something they usually wouldn’t.”

“You’re suggesting manipulation.”

“I am.” Connor adopts an innocent expression, in the face of Nine’s narrow-eyed scepticism. “Manipulation is well within our design protocols. You’re very good at it.”

“As are you,” his friend retorts, “it’s what we were made for. But I do not think Detective Reed will be so easily fooled by such an obvious tactic as using sex for coercion.”

“I have thought that time and time again about Lieutenant Anderson.” Connor watches as Hank physically wheels a cursing Detective Reed back to his and Nine’s workstation. He aims a wry smile back at his successor, “But why do you think he is progressing so effectively in limiting his alcohol intake?”

Nine visibly hesitates, and Connor knows it’s working; he’s breaking down that resistance. His excitement spikes, and he continues while he’s ahead, “It’s very common for couples to partake in social activities together. It can be a way of improving interrelationships. And _you_ already regularly join us for dinner,” he shrugs. “Bringing Detective Reed into the equation is the next logical phase. We are already all acquainted with each other, so any awkwardness of initial interactions can be avoided.” He lets it all sink in, before adding, “It is only the natural headway of events for you to invite the Detective, now that you have moved into a more intimate relationship.”

Nine is blinking slowly, in consideration of everything that has been said, and Connor knows in that moment that he’s got him.

“Very well.” His successor’s jaw is set, and he gives a resolved nod. “I shall break the Detective into the idea this week. I should have his agreement by Friday, at the very latest.”

Connor beams. “And I will pose the idea to Hank. It shouldn’t take too much convincing,” he answers, certified. “Hank very much enjoys having you over. And I’m sure he will…” Connor hazards another glimpse at the bullpen, where Hank and Detective Reed are now stewing in companionable silence at their respective desks.  “He will come around, to the notion of having Detective Reed in his house as well.”

Nine does not look convinced by _that_ , but he offers no more arguments. Instead he walks to his desk opposite the Detective’s, handing over the mug without a word.

Connor returns to Hank.

“What were you and the terminator talkin’ about?” the Lieutenant asks, wary as Connor slides with ease into his chair. “Pair of you were lookin’ mighty suspicious over there, Connor.”

“I was merely offering my best wishes to Nine and Detective Reed’s new relationship. Which they are not ready to be made public,” Connor replies, tone pointed, and Hank holds up his hands in understanding. Connor, satisfied, turns to his terminal. He lets ten seconds pass before he deems it safe to mention, “I have invited them both to dinner next week.”

Connor does _not_ make eye contact, despite the very clear fact that Hank is gaping, open-mouthed, in the corner of his vision. He knows it is far safer to keep his gaze trained on his monitor. The Lieutenant’s expression endures for several minutes as Connor calmly gets on with his work.

Nine, wisely, has not broken the news to Detective Reed _here_. Gavin is decidedly more vocal with his displeasure than Hank, and it will be far more agreeable to tell him of their dinner plans in a less crowded environment. For now, they look content; legs crossed beneath the desk, ankles brushing together now and then.

It is at least ten minutes before Hank speaks again. “Fine. Fuckin’ fine,” he grumbles, glaring at nothing and typing irritably away on his terminal. “But I am gettin’ black out drunk. _Black_. _Out_ , Connor. Don’t think you can fuckin’ stop me.”

Connor accepts the challenge, knowing full well he will succeed, and he begins to make mental preparations for their dinner date. It’s all very exciting, as far as he’s concerned. The next stage in his and Hank’s own relationship is to begin interacting with other couples, and Connor can think of no one better to start with than Nine and the Detective.

And as the morning goes on, he thinks that Hank may be overreacting slightly. Detective Reed is clearly in good spirits following his and Nine’s weekend together, and seeing that their relationship is in its beginning stages, this agreeable mood is bound to endure until next week at the least.

Yes, Connor decides by midday, Hank is most certainly overreacting. They are all adults. It’s only dinner. And Connor will be there to mediate should any animosity start to occur.

What could possibly go wrong?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by an idea from a very lovely anon: "...now that Gavin & R are together, Connor would tell R about double dates and then the two of them try to convince Hank and Gavin to go on one with them."
> 
> Connor’s precious and I fuckin’ had to.


	2. Gavin

Gavin, fully fucking aware that he sounds like the lead in a twenty-sixteen teen romcom starring Emma stone and Ashton Kutcher or something, has had what might be the best seven days of his adult life. It’s been an unintentional grinning at random times, disgustingly warm buzzing deep in his stomach, toe-curling kind of week.

Like fuck, under any possible circumstances, will he voice this train of thought to R. Not that he necessarily could, with his face pushed into the arm of the couch and an unfairly clever tongue in his ass. The last thing the smug son of a bitch needs is an ego boost.

Though, Gavin’s not sure he isn’t giving him one already, with the muffled sounds he’s already making. Loud? Probably. Incoherent? Abso-fucking-lutely.

He knows he’s squirming when R makes an amused sound against him, and sharp teeth sink into the back of his thigh, making him flinch and then push back with a groan. “Stay still.”

“Make me,” he gasps out, and R knows a challenge when he hears one. _Challenge_ , Gavin soon thinks dryly, _sure_. R’s fingers dig into his hips, bruising and keeping him effortlessly in place.

Shit, he’s spent most of that evening with R in his lap; rocking together languidly, until Gavin couldn’t bear it any longer. Now he’s been on his knees for what, realistically, is probably only minutes, but it feels like a fucking age, and his thighs are trembling, his dick is heavy and straining between them, and R’s tongue is fucking merciless.

“Oh _fuck_ , _baby_ , seriously–” He breaks off with a choked sound when R’s hand snakes around his thigh to grasp him. “Fuck, I’m– _fuck_ , I’m not gonna la–”

“Then don’t last.” He can hear the grin in R’s voice – so much for not bigging up his shitty ego – and then his tongue is back, pushing, curling, and his hand has barely stroked when Gavin comes over his fingers, whining into the cushions and pressing backwards against that blessed, fucking mouth.

It’s a matter of principle, he tells himself – instead of acknowledging exactly how fucking much he gets off on it – when he hauls himself over, returns his weight to his shaking elbows, and takes R to the back of his throat. He’s heavy on Gavin’s tongue, thick enough and long enough for him to feel the delicious stretch around his jaw, barring the edge of painful, and it only takes a few, hard sucks before Gavin’s moaning around him, feeling hot release coating his tongue and R’s fingers digging and fisting into his hair.

Best. Fucking. Week. Ever.

It takes a moment, collapsed on the couch with an arm sprawled over his eyes, and still breathing hard, for Gavin to finally squint into the dim light of his living room. Mia’s watching him with narrowed eyes from atop the TV, tail twitching irritably.

“ _Mrrrow_.”

“Shut it, cat,” he bites back, knowing full well that they’re occupying her favourite napping spot. “It’s my apartment, I can fuck wherever I want. And I’ve seen you lick your own asshole before, so you damn well don’t get to judge anythin’ I do.”

He hears R make a mild, amused sound from where he sits, hair mussed and clad only in his black, unbuttoned shirt, between the couch and the coffee table. It’s a fucking novelty that Gavin gets to see this; is the _only one_ that gets to see this. There’s never so much as a hair out of place at work, but now here the android is; dishevelled and the most gorgeous fucking thing to ever walk the fucking planet.

To spite him, Mia hops to the floor and decides to curl up on Gavin’s discarded pants, over by the front door. Dark jeans, white cat hairs. Fucking wonderful.

“Bitch,” he mutters under his breath, but he doesn’t sound annoyed, even to his own ears. He couldn’t, not with R resting his head back against Gavin’s bare thigh. “You’re worse than her, y’know. I ain’t a pillow.”

“Mm.” Another lazy, impartial noise. Almost tired, if Gavin could believe that possible. He’s never really considered whether an android can be tired. R has his eyes closed. Maybe they can. Wouldn’t be the weirdest revelation about them, Gavin supposes.

“Hey,” he nudges with his knee, and one steel-blue eye opens to regard him. “C’mere.”

R pulls himself up, and slides, with a grace that shouldn’t be possible after all the shit they’ve just done, to fit himself against Gavin across the couch.

If there was ever a way to get him to finish work early. He’d been impatient enough all fucking day – and every day progressively, for the past seven – to get home and just have fucking _this_. And yeah, he knew how it sounded; Ashton Kutcher, Emma Stone, romcom, whatever, shut the fuck up. He’d dare anyone else to say fucking different, with R sprawled out like a contented cat, all warm and nuzzled into Gavin’s neck. Holy motherfucking shit.

He flinches when he opens his eyes again, and Mia’s staring directly into his face, perched on R’s shoulder.

“God fuckin’ damn it, Mia.” Still, Gavin raises a hand, the one that _had_ been sifting through R’s hair, to give his attention whore of a cat a scratch. “Is this it, huh? This how we’re doin’ it? We take your spot, you invade our space?”

She purrs, in that way Gavin’s learned to mean, _yes, now shut the fuck up and let me nap_ , _bastard human_. She nestles her nose against R’s shoulder blade, shooing Gavin’s hand out of the way. He swears, the cat has the biggest fucking crush; every day she’s been waiting on the kitchen counter by the door to see if the new, tall android climbing post is going to follow Gavin inside and stay for dinner. And Mia’s an absolutely shameless flirt, too; purring, rubbing against any part of R she can reach. Gavin doesn’t blame her. But, no offence kitty cat, back the fuck off his man already.

“Oh my God, you’re such a suck up,” Gavin chuckles, when Mia stretches onto her side until she’s completely spread-eagled along R’s spine. “Go away.” He scoops a hand under her and plonks her onto the coffee table beside them, earning himself a sharp-clawed swipe the reaches just short of his wrist. “Fuckin’ pest.”

“Shsshchrmng.”

Gavin grins at the top of R’s head. “What?”

R turns until his words aren’t stifled against Gavin’s neck. “I said, she’s charming.”

Scoffing, Gavin presses a kiss into his hair. “D’you not hear me just say she licks her own asshole? China cups are charming, R, James fucking Bond is charming. That cat ain’t charming. She snatches my socks and breaks stuff when she’s pissed off.”

“And you steal my jacket,” R counters, though his voice is soft, and he punctuates the words with kisses along Gavin’s jaw, “and throw tantrums when _you’re_ pissed off.”

“Whatever.” It’s muttered against R’s lips with a smile. Gavin’s far too content and far to exhausted to argue with such a pretty, know-it-all mouth. Fuck, he’s happy. He’s on cloud fucking nine. Nothing, not a goddamn fucking thing, could bring him down right now.

“Eight and Lieutenant Anderson have invited us for dinner next Friday.”

Gavin, eyes closing serenely, hums into R’s hair. “Mm-hm.”

“I have accepted on behalf of us both.”

“Hm. Sure. Cool.”

It’s at least a minute before R’s concession catches up to him, and it hits him like a metal pipe straight to the gut. He bolts upright, disturbing both android and cat alike, and almost headbutt’s R’s pretty, traitor face as he does.

“Fucking _what_?!”

***

The chicken sizzles above the stove, steam curling up to the ceiling much like the irritation and betrayal curling in Gavin’s stomach. R- _I-probably-can’t-cook-_ K is in a pair of Gavin’s sweatpants and one of his T-shirts. He clearly believes that making Gavin dinner – a perfect, delicious-smelling, insta-worthy dinner – will soften his mood. And it probably fucking will, the crafty, infuriating, gorgeous android shithead. But for now, Gavin makes a point of stewing in a corner of the kitchen, cross-armed as he watches R’s work with a scowl.

“Friday night dinner with fuckwad Anderson and his robo-boy-toy? You’re un-fucking-believable.”

“According to Connor, the Lieutenant is a rather decent cook.”

Gavin baulks, hands raised mid-way in exasperation. “I ain’t thinkin’ about the fucking food, you ass. Me and Hank don’t hang out socially, all right. We’re colleagues. We ain’t even friends.”

He sees a smile curve at the corner of R’s mouth, and Gavin’s torn between finding it sexy and finding it irritating as all hell. “It’s odd that you so adamantly deny yours and the Lieutenant’s friendship.”

“We’re not friends.”

R makes a non-committal noise, clearly not in agreement. “I think it was very gracious of them to invite us.”

“Yeah, real fuckin’ nice of them. But I ain’t going.” Gavin slouches down against the counter, shoulders hunched. “Hell if I’m goin’ through an evening– a _Friday_ evening, of Hank and his dumb oaf of a dog. Go on your own.”

“If you truly don’t wish to accompany me, then I understand.”

Gavin blinks. No comeback? No negotiation? Well, that’s just fucking suspicious. “Why’d they even invite me, anyway,” he remarks, trying to sound as disinterested as possible. It’s scary sometimes, how much R can pick up on in nothing more than your tone of voice. “Ain’t you guys, like, tight-knit or somethin’? The fuck do they want me there for?”

As he adds some spice or other to the stir fry, R shrugs; one-shouldered and tight. It looks disturbingly unnatural on him, tense and self-conscious, and he’s normally so fucking poised. “Connor thought it would be nice. Now that we are… whatever we are.”

Okay, now he sounds wrong. Hesitant. Unsure. And holy fuck, Gavin does _not_ like it.

“And I would like to bring you,” R continues, stirring and making the sauce hiss in the pan. “I’d like for us all to spend an evening together. You are important to me, as are they.”

He gets it. He all of a sudden fucking gets it, and Jesus Christ, Gavin’s an asshole. After all the time – two fucking months – R’s spent getting to know Tina; all the considerate, _selfless_ effort he’s taken to hanging out with her and helping her out with tough cases and picking an extra coffee up for her in the mornings, just because she’s Gavin’s fucking friend and because Gavin’s _fucking_ _important_ _to him_.

Danny had never done anything like that for him. He'd never even made the effort, he and Tina had hated each other. He'd barely even acknowledged _Mia_  half the time. But R…

 _Fuck._ Boyfriend of the year. Of the fucking century.

Gavin paces over, sheepish and feeling like such a fucking asshole, and wraps his arms around R from behind. “Hey, I… Okay.” He presses his face between R’s shoulder blades. R pushes back, just barely, but enough for Gavin to notice, and he laces his fingers through Gavin’s. Because Gavin’s _important to him_. “Let’s go to dinner with Anderson and Connor on Friday.”

Gavin’s recompense is spicy Chinese food and the best fucking blow job of his life. He starts to think he can do this; he can be a great boyfriend, he can hang out with R’s buddies, so long as they can end the day alone and with one of their mouths around a dick.

Then he gets a text from Anderson.

 

 _\-----------------------------_ Thursday 31st July, 2039 (PM) _\-----------------------------_

 **Lt. Dickwad**  
_(23:31)_  
C just told me you’re coming next friday

 _(23:31)  
_ Thrilled (I’m not, why did you have to agree, you moron)

 _(23:32)  
_ Bring beer or you’re not getting fed

 

Gavin shakes his head and peers at R; half beneath the covers and peacefully in stasis with Mia curled into the crook of his neck. How the fuck he got the news to Connor so goddamn fast, Gavin has no fucking idea. Devious bastard.

He doesn’t reply to Hank, screw him, but he does make a note in his phone calendar to get beer. Then he settles down against R’s shoulder, resolved. If he’s going to be the best fucking boyfriend in history, he going to have to suffer through an evening of Hank’s grumbling, Connor’s infuriating positivity and that huge fucking dog.

And for that, he has to admit that Anderson‘s got the right idea. He’s going to need a shit ton of alcohol.


	3. Hank

“Fuck this.”

He makes sure to mutter it under his breath, but Hank knows that Connor’s heard. He sees the android’s lips quirk upwards. _Fuck this_ , Hank repeats, this time to himself. _And_ _fuck android super-hearing_.

This is a goddamn nightmare already. And they haven’t even arrived yet.

Hank gives Sumo’s ear a scratch when the dog slots his head between his knees. He curses Connor for looking so happy; wandering about the kitchen in that restless way he has, preparing dinner, setting places at the table with a little smile on his face. What in God’s name had CyberLife been thinking, making a socially-charged android? It was going to be the death of him, if alcohol poisoning didn’t get him first.

And Hank intends to drink. If he’s going to tolerate Reed up until ten PM, at the fucking _latest_ , then he’ll damn well _need_ to drink.

_BBBRRRRZZZZZZZZZZZZZ_

The doorbell, seven O’clock on the dot. Like Hank was expecting anything else from R.K, middle name _always on fucking time_.

“Can you get the door, please, Hank?” Connor’s tone is carefully neutral. It’s the audible equivalent of walking on egg shells. “I need to keep an eye on the food.”

Hank begrudgingly – and because he’s a weak, weak man, and could never refuse a pair of pretty brown eyes – does as he’s told. He hauls himself standing, trudges to the front door, and takes a deep breath before opening it. _Let’s just get this the hell over with_.

The terminator’s standing on the porch with his usual expression. Calm, collected, and with an unintentional hint of menace. It’s the one that makes most people pause and rethink before approaching him, though Hank’s come to learn that it’s just how he always looks.

And even after months, it still takes him a second to adjust to the sight of blue eyes on Connor’s face. It throws him off balance, and Hank suspects it always will, but the early discomfort’s gone. He thinks of them now the same way someone might think of twins. Different people, same face, and it brings a touch of normality to the situation. Well, as much normality as anything can have where Connor’s involved.

R.K inclines his head in greeting. “Good evening, Lieutenant.”

“Like hell it is.”

Connor coughs politely from the kitchen, and Hank knows a warning when he hears one.

“Yeah, yeah, good evening,” he grunts. “Anythin’ else you wanna talk about? Weather? Politics? Or d’you just wanna stand there letting the cold–”

“You gonna invite us in or what, Anderson. I’m freezing my fuckin’ ass off.”

Reed’s tone has absolutely no bite, and Hank comforts himself with the fact that the kid looks about as awkward as he himself feels. He’s avoiding eye contact and shuffling at R.K’s side with a twelve-pack of beer stuffed under his arm. Although – and it takes Hank a stunned and distorted moment to take it in properly – he’s wearing a different jacket. A _smarter_ jacket. And he’s _shaved_.

 _You’re so fucking whipped_ , Hank’s brain supplies, and he just manages hold back a snort.

He covers it with another grunt instead, and makes a dismissive gesture with one hand, “Get in here, then, and stop wastin’ our heat.” Hank turns back into the hallway, leaving their guests to make their own way in.

R.K ushers Reed in first, the fucking gentleman, and closes the door behind him, sliding out of his coat in one, fluid motion. It’s all routine, and artless in its familiarity.

Hank _does_ like having R.K here, despite his averseness to this entire evening. The guy’s good for conversation, can hold his own in pretty much any situation, and his sense of humour’s almost as dry as Hank’s, which is all he could ever ask for in a friend if he’s being honest.

“As requested.” R.K takes the beer pack from Reed, and holds it out in Hank’s direction. A peace-offering. An assurance that the evening probably won’t be as bad as Hank’s expecting. Well, beer certainly fucking helps matters, he can’t deny that. “But I will be monitoring your intake.”

There it is. Hank grumbles and takes the pack, wrestling a can free. “Life of the fuckin’ party, aren’t you.”

“Indeed.” R.K grants him one of those smiles. Thin and shitty, and he bends to greet Sumo when the dog nudges his snout against his thigh.

Yeah, Hank likes R.K. Has done ever since he got assigned to the DPD.

And then Reed swipes out a hand and snatches a beer can of his own. “I bought ‘em, I get at least half.” He cracks it open, and downs half the can in three gulps.

Hank knows that Reed is his real issue tonight.

He wouldn’t say that they’ve ever _gotten along_ , but they’ve been in a good fucking place for a while now as far as Hank’s concerned. After tonight, that’ll probably be fucked right back to where it was before the revolution.

Why did Connor have to suggest this? Hank and Reed are fine at work. They’re professional. They’re _comfortable_. But they’re _not_ friends. Becoming friends with Gavin Reed is, in fact, a ridiculous notion. Him and Hank hanging out socially is a big fucking risk, and a terrible – a fucking _terrible_ – idea. Hank’s surprised that the super twins haven’t figured that out yet.

R.K places a hand, _oh-so_ gently, over Reed’s wrist in warning when the guy goes to take another gulp. Hank expects him to smack the android’s hand away. But he watches, bemused, as Reed reluctantly lowers the beer. “Yeah, yeah, I know, I’ll slow down.”

And Hank absolutely doesn’t watch R.K helping Gavin out of his jacket. The softness in the android’s eyes is not _sweet_ , the faint flush on Reed’s shitty, shitty face is not _cute_. Hank’s not a fucking romantic. Double dates are a terrible, terrible idea, and this evening is damned.

He decides to escape to the kitchen, hoping that Connor needs some help with the finishing touches of whatever the hell he’s making. Hank hadn’t been paying attention.

But then the terminator brushes past him before he even takes a step. “Allow me, Lieutenant.”

“Asshole,” Hank sighs as R.K leaves him, clutching the beer can in his fist in the living room, with Reed mirroring his stiff position near the front door.

Fuck this.

Hank listens to Connor and R.K exchange their usual greetings, and they recommence what Hank’s sure is seamless work on a delicious dinner. One that he hopes will burn and ruin this evening before the awkwardness does.

Fuck. This.

He and Reed seem to silently agree, and they shuffle onto the couch. Sit at opposite ends. Drink their beer; Hank reclined back in a casual position that doesn’t feel casual at all, and Reed hunched over, elbows on his knees, gaze straying hopefully to the kitchen now and again. Whether he’s hoping that dinner will be announced so he’ll have something else to do with his hands, or that R.K will return and rescue him, Hank doesn’t know. And he sure as hell isn’t about to ask.

Reed jerks back when Sumo sits in front of him. Apparently not offended by his reaction, Hank’s oaf of a dog lifts a paw up onto Reed’s knee. “Get your fuckin’ dog away from me,” Reed gripes, trying, and failing spectacularly, to shove him away.

“C’mere, Sumo.” Hank pats the middle of the couch, and lets Sumo hoist himself up between them, tail wagging furiously and bashing Reed’s arm in rhythmic intervals.

“Prick,” Reed mutters, grabbing his second beer. “This fuckin’ sucks.”

Hank does snort this time, at the sheer tactlessness – and truth – of the remark. “Yeah, no shit, Einstein. You think this dinner bullshit was my idea?”

“Fuck no. I think it was robo-twink’s idea, and you fuckin’ agreed to it.”

“Oh, what, and you couldn’t have come up with an excuse to bail? Don’t put this all on me, smartass.”

“It _is_ all on you, fuckwad.” Reed’s got that scowl on his face that’s always reminded Hank of a pissed off kid, trying desperately to shrug off the blame for a crime he’s obviously committed. Reed’s always been like that. He’s a smart guy, too smart sometimes, but he’s petty. So defensive about everything. It’s something Hank’s always found himself butting heads with.

They make it another five minutes or so in silence, with Sumo panting obliviously between them, tail still smacking Reed’s shoulder. Reed’s fidgeting is starting to grate on Hank’s nerves just a little too much when Connor’s voice, like some angelic calling from above, announces that dinner’s ready.

“Thank fuck,” he and Reed say in unison, and it may be the first thing they’ve agreed on in the fifteen years Hank’s known him.

***

Connor, thank the fucking Lord, allows him to wash up once dinner’s over. The meal itself was surprisingly _fine_ , even when considering that androids can’t eat and it was just him and Reed stuffing their faces. Hank’s concluded that the problems only arise, as he’d suspected all along, when he and Reed are left _alone_ together. Hank’s got nothing to say to a hot-headed kid with an asshole complex, and Reed’s got nothing to say to him period.

From his place at the sink, Hank peers over his shoulder, checking up on Connor and Detective Douche. They’re sat in the living room, Sumo’s head on Connor’s knee, and they’re talking. It’s weird, Hank thinks, how far the two of them have actually come in so little time. Hank still remembers their first meeting on the night of Ortiz’s android’s arrest. Connor had barely been human, and Reed was about as bitchy as a person could get, especially when it came to androids.

From pulling his gun on Connor, to sitting and talking amiably with a Saint Bernard napping between them, Hank certainly can’t deny how much Reed’s changed.

Still, it doesn’t mean that _Hank_ has to like the guy.

“Lieutenant.”

Hank side-eyes R.K, not liking the way those three syllables suddenly sound.

The android’s paused in his drying up, and he’s fixed his gaze on the living room. There’s nothing that should cause concern in his expression, but Hank’s been a detective for a long time. He knows when something’s not right. “What’s up, terminator.”

The android hesitates – a very rare sight – before he returns his attention to the plate in his hand. “I am aware that Detective Reed and yourself do not communicate well with one another.”

Hank chuckles. “Well, ain’t that the politest fuckin’ way to say it. You got a real knack for phrasing, kid. Maybe you should’ve become a lecturer instead.”

R.K side-eyes him, unimpressed, and does not offer up a retort. “I only bring it up because I believe, if you were both able to move past the initial discomfort, that you could be friends.”

Hank wants to laugh again. He really does. But there’s something oddly raw about that way R.K says it, and he suddenly gains a new and disturbing awareness that he didn’t have before. “And you want us to be friends.”

R.K grants him a nod. “I do. Very much so. The Detective–” He cuts himself off, sparing another glance at the living room when Reed stands from the sofa, stretches, and disappears around the corner, most likely to the bathroom. _“Gavin_ does not trust easily. And as such, his list of friends is sparse. But I do know that he respects you,” R.K continues, earnestly, and Hank feels as though he’s entered some kind of alternate reality where the statement _‘Gavin Reed respects Hank Anderson’_ is commonly heard. “And I know you look out for him in return. And you are both important to me. Therefore, it would be… it would mean something to me. If you were to–”

“Try harder to get on with your boyfriend,” Hank finishes for him, realising what an asshole friend he’s been. He’s made little to no effort with Reed that evening, and now his friend’s standing next to him and having to physically ask Hank to make his boyfriend feel more included. “Shit,” Hank sighs, running a hand through his hair and feeling like the world’s shittiest excuse of a friend. “I didn’t realise this was so important to you.”

R.K shrugs slightly with one shoulder. Hank has no idea how he makes such an unpoised motion _appear_ poised, but that’s just R.K in a nutshell. “There aren’t many that I consider friends, Lieutenant, and Gavin is much the same. I, however, consider _you_ one of my best. You made me feel welcome when I first started coming here, so I thought that perhaps…” He trails off, but Hank doesn’t need him to finish.

“I hear you, kid.” Hank dries his hands, lays one on R.K’s shoulder and squeezes. And then he goes in search of Reed. He ignores the little smile Connor shoots him when he passes by the couch. _Freaky, telepathic, thought-sharing androids_.

The bathroom door’s open and the light’s off. But he didn’t see Reed return to the main part of the house. Hank swears to God, if he finds the guy snooping around his bedroom–

He’s on Hank’s bed; perched on the edge of the mattress with Hank’s Gibson balanced on his knee. He’s plucking the stings with a practiced ease that has Hank’s eyebrows damn well meeting his hairline. What the ever-loving fuck is _happening_ right now?

“Reed?”

Gavin flinches and the guitar almost slips off his knee, but his grip on the neck keeps it from falling. He stares wide-eyed at Hank over his shoulder; the spitting image of a deer caught in the headlights. “Jesus, Anderson, you tryin’ to give me a fucking heart attack?” He doesn’t sound angry, though; the words are more an _oh-shit-I’ve-been-caught_ knee-jerk reaction. Then Gavin glances sheepishly from Hank to the guitar, “I was just, y’know– I saw it after I went to the bathroom and– I was about to put it back, I just wanted to take a look–”

“No harm done,” Hank interrupts, and while he’s not particularly relishing in the fact that his favourite guitar is perched on Gavin Reed’s knee, he thinks that this could work. This could fucking work, thanks to Gavin’s lack of respect for personal privacy. Now Hank doesn’t have to splutter around for a conversation starter that might not end in them at each other’s throats. “Didn’t, uh, didn’t know you played.”

Gavin clears his throat, gives a noncommittal shrug. Avoids Hank’s gaze and focuses down on the guitar instead. “Yeah. You neither.”

It’s so fucking awkward, and the nicety feels way too forced, and Hank wants nothing more than to retreat to the familiarity of Connor’s unjudging presence and R.K’s dry remarks.

But he walks into the bedroom instead, and motions vaguely to the guitar in Gavin’s hands. “My first one. Got it second-hand from a neighbour when I was sixteen. Mowed their lawn for months just to be able to afford it, and when I finally could, the thing was damaged to all hell,” he adds, circling the bed to grab the other guitar; a Fender, wood polished. Newer and prettier, but Hank’s least favourite of the two. “Wanted to fix it up myself. Too stubborn to go to an expert.”

Gavin scoffs. “No kidding.”

“Took me twelve fuckin’ weeks, but it worked out all right. Still sounds like a pissed off cat if I don’t tune it for a while, though,” and Gavin’s scoff turns into a chuckle this time. Fucking _progress_. Hank gives himself a well-earned, mental pat on the back. “Had to replace all the stings at some point or another, too. Probably not for the last time. Swear it’s where half my fuckin’ pay check goes.”

“Nah, same here. I got a Gibson at home. Graduation gift from my old man,” Gavin says, and the way he’s holding the guitar with such familiarity suddenly makes sense. Hank makes himself sit on the bed beside him; not too close, but it’s more so he doesn’t jostle the guitars when he hauls the Fender onto his knee. “And let me fuckin’ tell you, cats and guitars do not get along. She thinks the strings are hers.”

Hank snorts. “Dogs, too. I’ve caught Sumo with his teeth in the necks more than once.” He leans over to inspect the Gibson, and points out the slight indentation of tooth marks along the side. “See? Animals have got no fuckin’ respect for musical talent.”

Gavin grins down at the faded marks, and the warm, genuine sight of it hits Hank with _something_. _Something_ other than awkwardness, or tolerance, or mutual disdain, or any other emotion that he’s come to associate with Reed since he’s known him.

“You think you got musical talent, old timer? Let's fuckin’ hear it.”

“Kid, I got like twenty years on you. I’ll wipe the floor with whatever you’ve got.”

“That’s some pretty big talk. C’mon, then, show me what you got.”

Hank shakes his head, if only to make his hair hide the smirk that’s threatening to split his face in half. And when he starts playing the opening chords of Pink Floyd’s ‘Money’, Gavin’s whole face lights up like a kid on fucking Christmas.

And when Gavin starts to join in, and he lets Sumo slump against his leg when the dog shuffles into the bedroom, that _something_ , Hank realises, is the thought that attempting a friendship with Gavin Reed might not be so fucking ridiculous after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate to not have an excuse as to why this took so long, but I have no excuse as to why this took so long. I finally sat my butt down to finish this chapter, though, and it feels darn good.
> 
> The headcanon that Gavin plays guitar is the lovely [leemorry's](http://leemorry.tumblr.com/) fault.


	4. R.K

**_PROCESSING………  
100%_ **

**_Band: “PINK FLOYD”  
Track: “MONEY”_ **

**_  
_** The tune filters in from the bedroom, faint but unmistakable. One of Gavin’s favourites. So the Lieutenant is making good on his word. R.K doesn’t _quite_ smile, though it’s a close thing. Connor, it seems, has far less restraint.

“I knew Hank would come around,” he remarks, beaming over his shoulder toward the bedroom door, now nudged ajar to a Sumo-sized width. “He _does_ like Detective Reed,” he adds with confidence, “no matter how often he may deny it.”

R.K would point out that there was little to _dis_ like about Gavin, before remembering that not everyone held his specific opinions. Many, of course, are not privy to the Detective’s better qualities. The thought elicits a strange feeling; a mix of sadness and pleasure, to know that the best of Gavin is for him and him alone, barring Miss. Chen perhaps. It makes him feel unique; unique in a way that being an advanced prototype never has.

“This evening has proved far more successful than I’d anticipated,” R.K answers instead, deciding to acknowledge Connor’s part in all this. “I shouldn’t have doubted your capabilities.”

“Or yours,” Connor retorts. “You had a far larger part than I did in encouraging Detective Reed to join us. And you convinced Hank to push past his boundaries,” he adds, titling his head once again in way of the bedroom, “which seems to be going well. I’m sure this will not be the last evening we all spend together like this.”

“Yes. I believe we’ve succeeded in officially integrating the Detective into our social group.”

  
_**> MISSION SUCESSFUL<**_

  
R.K hears laughter from the bedroom, as Pink Floyd changes to Led Zeppelin. “Our next point of call is Miss. Chen,” he adds. “She’ll no doubt prove far less challenging than the Detective, in persuading her to join us.”

Connor blinks, before a small smile tugs at his mouth. “I should have known you wouldn’t be content with simply stopping here.” However, he nods, signifying that he, too, has already begun contemplating their next course of action. “We’ll have to wait before taking the any further action, though. At least for a little while,” he points out. “We don’t want to arouse too much suspicion.”

“An astute idea. I agree.”

They remain on the couch for several minutes, letting silence reign save for the strumming of guitars and the soft, occasional whine from a neglected Sumo. R.K still doesn’t understand the concept of uncomfortable silences. Silence is merely silence; it indicates peace, serenity, unjudgmental solitude, and therefore there is very little to be uncomfortable about. Humans do not seem to comprehend it in the same, easy manner as androids.

Gavin never allows silence to linger for long, and likewise, Hank always seeks to fill it. But there is always solace to be found in Connor’s quiet presence; one that R.K can seldom find anywhere else. This time, however, it is cut short.

**“If it’s not too much to ask, Nine. I’d like your input on something.”**

R.K feels himself frown, still unused to being caught so off guard. Connor rarely initiates cerebral communication, and as they are the only two beings in the room, there is little need to do so at this time. R.K’s only conclusion is that Eight wishes to broach a delicate subject; one that might lead to disagreeable circumstances, should Gavin and the Lieutenant overhear.

Intriguing.

**“I wanted to broach this with you sooner, but the precinct seemed an inappropriate place to discuss it. So seeing as you’re here now, I thought… If you wouldn’t mind.”**

**“I am listening.”**

Connor sits up straight, too straight, beside him, and does not meet his eyes. It’s all _very_ intriguing, and very uncharacteristic. R.K waits, slightly put on edge, for his predecessor to gather his nerve. **“I’m not certain whether I should even be disclosing this. By social parameters, it should probably be kept between me and Hank. For now, at least. But I…”**

 **“But you believe an outside opinion would prove beneficial to your state of mind.”** Obviously. **“As I said, I am listening.”**

Connor gives a nod, gaze fixed on the plain, dog-hair-ridden carpet. He rolls one shoulder, tensely, as a human would to square himself for a fight. From experience in the field, it takes a lot to rattle Connor in such a way. And he has not yet shared this issue, whatever it may be, with Hank? That is mildly worrying.

 **“One night, last month, after the Lieutenant retired for the evening, I decided to stay in here with Sumo. There was an old movie called The Danish Girl on TV, about an artist who undergoes one of the first sex reassignment surgeries. And as I was watching it, I began…”** Connor pauses, then shoots R.K a sheepish expression. **“I began contemplating. And researching.”**

 **“We are programmed to be thorough when it comes to assessing information,”** R.K points out, knowing full-well that he himself would harbour little guilt over the matter, had he been in Eight’s position. ‘Contemplating’ was in their protocol, after all. **“I wouldn’t blame yourself for following basic instincts.”**

 **“That’s what I’d hoped you would say,”** Connor replies, shoulders loosening visibly.

R.K gives him a moment, and then decides to push, albeit gently. He is curious, yes, and becoming more so by the second, but he will not force Connor to confess as though he were a suspect in their interrogation room. Empathy is hard work, but R.K believes he is improving significantly. **“So you began contemplating a subject pertaining to this movie, and it has caused you to become uncertain?”**

**“Not uncertain. Not exactly.”**

It’s too unspecific. R.K deals in specifics, and ‘not exactly’ is a phrase that he thoroughly despises. Connor certainly _looks_ uncertain. But he claims that he is not, and it is frustrating. _Empathy_ , R.K reminds himself, and he tries to keep his tone neutral as he begins to reassure, **“You know you can talk to me about anything–”**

**“I came to the conclusion that I identify as genderfluid.”**

The confession leaves Connor in a short rush of static over their wavelengths, and now that he’s begun, he cannot seem to stop the flood of information that follows.

 **“Since becoming deviant, anyway. Gender fluidity is a human concept, of course, but it’s the most accurate description I can find for the way I’ve been… feeling. The character in that movie was so passionate about becoming a woman because she truly felt that she _was_ one, even though biologically she was born male. I don’t think I want to go quite that far; I _am_ content with my original design, but the movie made me realise that I also don’t always feel… right. Comfortable. I don’t feel like… myself, the way that I am, or the way that I dress, sometimes. And I want to do something about it, as the artist did. Sometimes I want to… dress differently. Or have my hair a different way.”** Connor fidgets with the hems of his shirt-sleeves; one of the Lieutenant’s awful garments, bright blue with a horrendous yellow pattern over the top. **“Or… or perhaps try make-up. _Perhaps_. I know that men wear make-up, too, but overall it’s considered a more feminine venture–”**

R.K reaches across and stills Eight’s hands. Connor glances up at him, and what he must see on R.K’s face is pure bemusement, because that is how R.K feels. Bemused, and taken aback. Because surely – _surely_ – Connor didn’t believe that he would be thought less of for this.

 **“You didn’t truly think this would shock me, did you? Or inspire any kind of negative response? This changes nothing, apart from allowing me to know more about you.”** R.K is relieved to observe Eight’s tension easing even further. He does not say that he understands how Connor is feeling, because truth be told, he _doesn’t_. He himself has never felt uncomfortable as he is or how he dresses, so he cannot, as the saying goes, put himself in Connor’s shoes. But that is not to say he doesn’t wish to provide whatever support possible. **“Gender and sexuality mean little to androids, Connor. You know this.”**

**“But they mean a great deal to humans, in most cases.”**

The puzzle fits together instantly. Now R.K understands. **“You are hesitant to tell the Lieutenant about your recent awareness.”**

Connor shrugs, although the answer is obviously a resounding _yes_. **“I don’t want him to treat me differently because of it. I don’t want him to…”**

 **“To what?”** R.K waits for an answer; endures two, three seconds of Connor’s hesitancy before continuing, **“To hate you? To decide he no longer wants you?”** R.K takes his hands more firmly, “Connor,” he says quietly, but aloud because he _must_ be told. “I’m aware that I’m new to this relationship business. But I’m certain that there’s nothing you could do or say that could make Hank change the way he looks at you.”

More relief comes when R.K feels a gentle, appreciative squeeze against his fingers.

 **“I’m glad you told me first,”** R.K admits. **“But have faith in the Lieutenant. He should know how you’ve been feeling, and what you want going forward.”**

Connor’s posture has relaxed considerably, though he still maintains a firm hold on R.K’s hands, like an anchor to the seabed. **“You’re right. Of course, you’re right. I should trust him. He’s never let me down before. And he’s trusted me with his own struggles in the past. I’ll… I’ll try and tell him tonight. Once we’re alone, perhaps.”** He raises his head and grants R.K a smile, “Thank you, Nine. I know you don’t consider yourself to be proficient in these matters, but I feel a lot more confident about how events might unfold. You should give yourself more credit.”

R.K would point out that he was not designed to play the role of Agony Aunt, and thus he should not be able, let alone proficient, in such instances at all. But somehow it seems like the wrong thing to say. And according to Connor, R.K has improved his emotional state, which he supposes is one of his more consistent mission parameters these days. He is never quite satisfied unless Connor’s stress levels are far below the norm.

 **“I’ll keep the channels open, then,”** he says instead, **“should you decide to contact me following your conversation with the Lieutenant.”** It’s a not-so-subtle request; _please let me know how it goes_ , and from the smile quirking its way onto Connor’s lips, he knows it too.

 **“I am surer now, that his reaction will not be as I had feared.”** Connor stands, performs a long stretch above his head that an android by no means needs to perform, and begins to walk towards the bedroom. “I should probably go and interrupt them. It’s not a dinner party if half the party are cooped up in one room for the rest of the night.”

“Indeed.”

Connor disappears further down the hallway, and R.K takes a moment in his absence to compile a list of inquiries and priorities regarding the revelation of Connor’s identity.

  
_**__Different pronouns?**_  
 _ **> >ask CONNOR**_

_**__Stores that cater for genderfluid and/or androgynous styles?** _   
_**> >RESEARCH** _

_**__Anyone who may react unfavourably?** _   
_**> >possible DANGERS………?** _   
_**> >how to MITIGATE the situation or REMOVE THE INDIVIDUAL** _

  
_**ADVISORY updating………** _   
_**100%** _

_**UPDATED** _

_**Advise Connor to INFORM TINA CHEN of his identity** _   
_**> >provide additional SUPPORT** _

_**Investigate the GENERAL PUBLIC MINDSET regarding android gender identity** _

**  
** He can gather the relevant information once Connor’s had enough time to broach the subject with Hank. He does not want to overwhelm him with questions so soon, and this should stay between the three of them for the time being. For Connor’s piece of mind, if nothing else.

R.K hears the guitar-playing pick up in volume again. Evidently it may take a while for Connor to persuade them away; Gavin is fond of guitars, and the Lieutenant’s small collection seems to have been quite a hit. No matter. R.K is in no hurry, now that the primary mission for that evening has been seen to.

He waits patiently, and is joined by Sumo while he slowly paces the living room, taking in the Lieutenant’s various collectives for what must be the thousandth time since he first began frequenting his house. Hank’s obsessions stand out plainly; basketball, jazz, and police work.

His desk in the corner is untidy, yet organised in the Lieutenant’s strange, unique way. Sharing little of Connor’s careful restraint when it comes to prying – prying is _technically_ in their basic protocol, too, so there is little to be ashamed of, really – R.K focuses on the tablet lying beside the terminal, and scans it, if only to kill time seeing what evidence the Lieutenant may have overlooked in his latest case.

There are three tabs open, and only the first has to do with the case at all. An email request for the blueprints to a prominent museum; one in which the theft Hank and Connor are currently investigating had taken place several days ago.

The second is a YouTube video: a recipe for the chilli Hank and Gavin had consumed for dinner. The Lieutenant had in fact recalled Gavin’s fondness for spicy dishes, then, if he went through the trouble of researching such a recipe. R.K feels oddly touched on Gavin’s behalf at the evidence in front of him.

Though he is quickly distracted from anything and everything else. The third tab is a webpage laden in white and gold, and the header makes R.K freeze quite completely.

**WARRENJAMES ENGAGEMENT RINGS**

He regards the page calmly. Scrolls for a few seconds past tasteful ring after ring, reads the header twice more before deciding that this is, undeniably, an engagement ring website open on Lieutenant Anderson’s personal tablet.

And he responds with the only phrase that feels apt in these precise circumstances. “Holy shit.”

*******

“Holy _shit_!” It loudly escapes Gavin, the very minute the door to the apartment closes behind them and R.K can’t find the restraint to keep his discovery to himself any longer. “A fuckin’ engagement ring?! What the fuck, R, what the ever-loving _fuck_?!”

“My admission, exactly.” R.K intercepts Gavin’s jacket mid-flight, when the man shrugs it off and tosses it towards one of the kitchen counters. He hangs it over the hook on the back of the door instead, placing his own beside it. “Although we are not to repeat this to anyone, you understand,” R.K cautions after a moment’s thought. “It could be that nothing comes of it. The website _may_ have been mere curiosity; a flight of fancy, on Lieutenant Anderson’s part.”

Though R.K is doubtful that it is. He has learned that once Hank commits to something, he tends to sees it through to its end. Due to mere obstinacy, more often than not.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Gavin answers absently, offhand as he scoops Mia up and collapses onto the couch with her cradled happily against his chest. “Jesus, Hank fucking Anderson gettin’ engaged. Can’t fuckin’ believe it.”

“ _If_ he asks.”

“Yeah, yeah, _if_ he asks. Still, fuckin’-A, the world’s gone mad. Anderson marryin’ an android? After, what, not even a fuckin’ year? What the actual fucking _shit_.”

It is clear that there’s no hope in conciliating him. R.K has long-since learned to forego trying to dissuade Gavin Reed when he has fixated upon something so passionately. So he comes to sit beside the man, instead, and allows Mia to crawl onto his thigh and stretch up to rub her head against his chin in greeting.

“I sincerely hope it goes well. Should the Lieutenant ‘pop the question’, as they say.”

“He better have an open fuckin’ bar at the wedding.”

“You have your priorities straight, I see.”

“Damn right, I do! If I’m gonna be dressin’ up all fancy and sitting through a long-ass ceremony, I ain’t paying for my fuckin’ drinks.”

 _I adore you so_ , R.K thinks to himself, though outwardly he sighs in derision. He weaves an arm around Gavin to pull him close, and the man settles against his shoulder as though he were made to fit there. R.K acknowledges that it’s a ludicrous and fanciful notion. But it feels like that, all the same.

“Thank you for coming with me tonight.”

Gavin nuzzles into the crook of his neck, and then, apparently deciding it isn’t enough, and ignoring Mia’s disapproving hiss, he hooks a leg over and pulls himself up to straddle R.K’s hips. “Believe it or not,” he begins, pushing their foreheads together with a grin and wrapping his arms around R.K’s shoulders, “I actually had a good time.”

“Surely not,” R.K teases. “That must be the alcohol talking.”

Gavin’s grin widens, and their noses squish together as he tipsily presses further forward, “Shut the fuck up. I did, seriously. Anderson ain’t so bad,” he adds – though it sounds like it pains him to do so – as he reclines slightly to brush R.K’s hair back with his fingers. “I guess we could do it again. I mean, I wouldn’t mind.”

“Good. We are returning next Friday.”

“We’re fuckin’–? We’re fuckin’ what?” Gavin stares at him, before it swiftly morphs into a resigned glare. “I don’t know how the fuck you and the dipshit scheme so quickly, but you gotta fuckin’ stop.”

He makes a valiant show of pretending to be angry, pushing onto his feet and storming into the kitchen to dig around for another beer.

“Fine. Fuckin’ fine. We’ll go back next fuckin’ Friday. But for now, I’m gonna drink this and we’re gonna put on some crappy music from twenty-twenty, and then I’m gonna blow you on the couch and you’re damn well gonna let me, and then you’re gonna bend me over the bed and I don’t wanna hear a fuckin’ word of an argument out of you, all right? Un-fucking-believable,” he rants on, taking measured sips of beer as he stalks back into the living room and scrolls through the channels to find music that he deems appropriately ‘crappy’. “You’re lucky you’re so fuckin’ pretty, otherwise I’d be kickin’ your ass out. Dinner at fuckwad Anderson’s again, R, what the fuck, at least _ask_ me first.”

He is more or less pacified after half the beer is finished, although tipsy soon divulges into something heavier, as R.K had suspected it would. He finds himself being pulled from the safety of the couch to dance to a track that was clearly not made to be danced to. Though he finds he cannot complain, with Gavin stumbling around and laughing in his embrace as they try to navigate the furniture. R.K hopes they dance like this at Connor and the Lieutenant’s wedding.

“You were wonderful tonight,” he finds himself saying quietly, after another, slower track begins, and Gavin has shifted close enough to rest his cheek against R.K’s shoulder. He assumes it is mere sentiment that makes him say it aloud, in the midst of the music and Mia’s purring, and he lowers his head until his lips are pressed to Gavin’s hair. “You’re always wonderful.”

“Shut the fuck up. Weirdo,” is Gavin’s biting response. But he is flushed and smiling against R.K’s shirt, one hand enclosed in R.K’s fingers as they sway side to side together.

 _I will marry you one day, Gavin Reed_ , he thinks, allowing himself a few more moments of frail, human sentiment. _And we’ll dance like this at our wedding._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I watched The Danish Girl for the first time recently, and realized that Alicia Vikander is pretty much a goddess in everything she does. And Eddie Redmayne is stunning, as always.
> 
> An Anon followed up on a genderfluid!Connor mention on my [tumblr](https://imogengotdrunk.tumblr.com/) just before I was about to post this, so nice timing!
> 
> (Also - anyone who has problems with genderfluid!Connor, gender fluidity in general or anything relating to freedom of expression when it comes to gender and/or sexuality, please leave it out of the comments. We don't appreciate that kind of negativity here, thanks.)


End file.
